


Balance

by Ringshadow



Series: Trickster Souls [9]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Sentinel
Genre: Clint Barton the injury magnet, Firefly References, M/M, love story told in extra-sensory abilities, timeline independent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1198089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ringshadow/pseuds/Ringshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What are you dazing on hm?” </p><p>“The scent of you.”</p><p>A little Clint/Phil drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance

Clint knew where he was before he opened his eyes. He was still half asleep, drifting on some very nice Sentinel-grade painkillers, and as he comes awake, his first inhale tells him everything. The scent of SHIELD medical, an S/G room, neutral with the slightest hint of lemon verbena. The hum and hiss of monitor gear, and most importantly, the smell of Phil.

 

Cologne, cordite, and leather, with the warm musk scent of skin under it all. Phil almost always wore Bvlgari, he had Blue on, dabbed just barely over his pulse points. Enough that the scent trailed him, soft and subtle but not enough to overwhelm Clint. Cordite and gun oil, Phil’s still packing his 1911. Leather from driving gloves tucked into his suit jacket pocket.

 

Clint must have smiled in his semi-dazed state because Phil’s mind, once a low hum, opened up in sound and light against Clint’s own. Phil frankly astounds Clint, had since minutes after he’d really met him as he’d been clutching the gunshot in his leg that Phil had just inflicted on him, and he’s certain that he’ll be just as astounded by him the day he dies. That anyone could fade into the background so effectively while his skull contained sunrise was a shocking contrast.

 

But then, Phil was a type of guide so rare they were rumor. Empathy was common, telepathy less so. Telekinesis was considered the rarest, but there was one yet rarer to the point it only had a nickname even on official paperwork. Kill-kinetic.

 

Phil was the whole spectrum to different degrees, which had led to how reserved he was. He had to be closely bound in his whole mind or be overwhelmed, because he could hear everything around him if he dropped his shields. Clint had seen it in action, and he’d never forget the first time Phil had closed his eyes and aggregated the whole crowd around them in his head, pointing out their potential threats with ease even as the strain made itself known in a crease between his brows.

 

Oh, and he could kill people with his brain. There was that little fact.

 

Clint had never even heard of the ability. He’d been Phil’s lookout at a formal function, watching on security cameras as his handler moved smoothly through the crowds, an invited guest in a tux, not questioned at all. Phil had had his back to the target, and Clint remembers his shock as he watched agony flicker across Phil’s face for just a split second before easing out, and the target had gasped, staggered, and collapsed, dead before even hitting the ground.

 

Aneurism, the autopsy had said.

 

One less security threat.

 

Clint’s lying on his side and he can feel the real, somehow tangible heat of Phil’s lion stretched out on the bed next to him. How something can be invisible, walk through walls and effortlessly appear between locations like a ghost but be so real is something Clint never understood. To him, Phil’s lion felt like several hundred pounds of protective dangerous predator and he’d have it no other way.

 

“What are you dazing on hm?” One of Phil’s hands clasped Clint’s, so he opened his eyes, grateful the lights were dialed low.

 

“The scent of you.” Clint replied, sounding as groggy as he was. “And how amazing you are.”

 

“You’re drugged.” Phil smiled a bit.

 

“Doesn’t mean I’m lyin’.” Clint shifted a bit, then grunted when the lion set its heavy head on him and pushed down to pin him. “Hey. Ease off, I’m not that wounded.”

 

 

 

“You need to stop jumping off buildings.” Phil kept Clint’s hand, went so far as to lace their hands together.

 

The room lights are dim, and only served to accentuate the dips and rises of Clint’s muscles and the shadows under his eyes. Even wounded and healing, he’s nothing short of beautiful to Phil and he’s been that way since he got his first glance, at a distance during surveillance. They’d watched Clint for quite a while and eventually Phil got in close enough to look at the archer mentally, only to have the realization hammer him that this man, this assassin with a curious choice in weaponry and a smile of solid sass and sin, was his Sentinel, was the person he’d been waiting all his life for.

 

Of course, this happened right as Clint got wise to the surveillance and bolted.

 

The chase had lasted months, and the mastery at which Clint had managed to slip through SHIELD’s fingers more than once was beyond impressive, but so frustrating. Clint thought he was fleeing the authority, Phil was watching his sentinel run away from him. Which had eventually led to Phil making a shot from half a block away and landing a nice, easy to heal wound to one of Clint’s thighs. Phil had holstered his weapon and made the approach alone, and when Clint just stared, on the ground clutching his leg and seemingly waiting for a second bullet, Phil had reached out and lightly touched one of Clint’s temples instead.

 

The realization hammering Clint and the relief hitting Phil was tidal wave in strength, and Clint’s time spent healing was also spent talking. By the time he was ready for duty, they weren’t so much bonded as alloyed together. They didn’t have a fortress or a palace, they had a spaceship. It wasn’t the Enterprise either, not something clean and sterile seeming, but more along the lines of the Millennium Falcon. Small, rough and tumble, tough and comfortable and just theirs, existing in the bridge between their minds, in an imaginary nebula.

 

Clint astounded Phil. Even for a Sentinel, what he could do seemed beyond the limits of most humans. Phil had no doubt that Clint was the greatest marksman on the planet, and all the pain of his life hadn’t broken him, hadn’t taken away his sense of humor. He almost completely lost a sense on a job and had just rolled with it, gotten good hearing aids from SHIELD and kept moving.

 

But then, as Phil got to know him, he realized that Clint did that because he didn’t realize there was another option. He’d spent his whole life running and ducking from someone’s hard blows and now it was just programmed into him. He had no idea how to stop and exhale and let someone else pick up the weight. It’d been the single hardest thing to convince him to do, because Phil wasn’t exactly Mr. Laid-Back either. They had a few places to live around the world, and all of them had security that Fort Knox would have been envious of because it’s only paranoia if there aren’t people out to get you.

 

Phil’s introspection was cut off by Clint’s raspy laugh and squeeze of his hand. “Shit, boss, where’s the fun in that.”

 

“You’re going to be the death of me someday. I already blame my hairline on you and now I’m going grey.” He smiled and shook his head.

 

Judging by Clint’s eyeroll, he’d dithered about this several times too many. “When can I get out of here?”

 

“When I say so.”

 

“Aw, fuck you, Phil.”

 

“Not until medical says it’s okay.”


End file.
